


Starlight

by orphan_account



Series: Partnership [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Set after immediately Starshine)</p><p>With their souls intertwined and John's new-found freedom, the pair are free to roam and do what they please. </p><p>And of course, the number one thing on their 'to do' list is to take down Moriarty.</p><p>
  <a href="http://askstarshinejohnlock.tumblr.com/">Now with an ask blog!</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

 

——

 

Soon after tying up the bandage, John’s brow furrowed with a mixture of annoyance and concern. “We’ll need to start searching for new jobs.”

 

Sherlock blinked, looking up from his wrapped hand to give John a questioning stare. With a tilt of his head, he started when John’s fingers carded through his hair. Instinctively, he leaned into the touch. The Gleaner’s fond smile prompted one of his own and in return, Sherlock said nothing, words weren’t needed to express how he felt. Not anymore; it was all rather convenient.

 

“Fallen stars call out to hollow souls,” John explained. “My soul isn’t hollow anymore.” As if to demonstrate his point, his hand dropped and he lightly poked at Sherlock’s chest. The touch was playful and Sherlock couldn’t resist capturing the wrist in his uninjured hand; his gaze was firm as he lifted John’s hand to cup his cheek. The colouring of John’s face made his heart swell with pride.

 

“You don’t seem upset by it,” Sherlock remarked, letting go after a few seconds had passed. He was pleased to note that John didn’t pull away, rather, he started to stroke his cheek; his thumb running over this cheekbone while his fingers played with the jaw line. He closed his eyes and welcomed the kind touch.

 

“I think I got the better end of the deal.” Sherlock could hear the smile in John’s voice. Then there was a groan. “I’ll have to alert the office soon.”

 

“How soon is soon?” Sherlock murmured, suddenly beginning to feel sleepy. Between the drama of Jim’s text and the whole Pledge fiasco, it would take a superhuman to be unaffected by it all. And while he frequently abstained from associating himself with the human race, just this once, Sherlock would admit that he was feeling the edge of his limits. Just this once.

 

He sleepily opened his eyes when John placed a light kiss on his lips. “I’ll alert them now, but first thing tomorrow, I’ll have to hand in my collar and your bangle.”

 

Sherlock frowned. He was quite fond of his bangle, though it had been worn by many others before, it was still a symbol of ownership. He belonged to John, and John’s collar showed that he belonged to him. They were merely pieces of metal and worthless in value, his logical mind reasoned. His irrational side knew it was silly, that it made no sense for a pair of matching serial numbers to hold such immense emotional value.

 

It did nothing to stop the indignant feeling that crept up on him. They were being unfairly wronged.

 

How odd, he had never been one for sentiment...

 

“Some Gleaners get gold chokers after a Pledge and give their partners a gold bangle. It makes sense if you think about it, bronze in the Homestead, silver as a District Gleaner and gold for one who’s made a Pledge. It’s like a rank thing,” John mused.

 

It was endearing how he managed to misinterpret how he was feeling, Sherlock thought with an internal smile. Well, not completely misinterpret, he just focused on the wrong point. “Gold is tacky,” he said, just to be contrary.

 

John chuckled. “I agree, I’d feel odd to wear that much gold on me. Silver was fine, it’s subtle.” ‘Not like I had a choice’ remained unspoken in the air. He shook his head and unlatched his collar, unceremoniously pressing all the buttons at once before he, quite forcefully, snapped the thing in half.

 

Or rather, it looked like he did. In truth, he’d actually forced the collar to bend so much that each half of the hinge was touching. It was only now did Sherlock see the black tube nesting in the centre of one half. A gentle push and the tube sprang up, cleanly dropping into John’s palm. Oh, a battery? Well, he always did wonder how the collar OSes were powered; he felt stupid for not realising sooner.

 

As if sensing his confusion, John opened his mouth to explain. “The button thing lets them know I quit, and this,” he said, waving the battery between his thumb and forefinger. “Let’s them know that I’m no longer a Gleaner.”

 

“Because to rid oneself of a functioning collar is suicide for a Gleaner,” Sherlock said. He was rewarded with a smile and a nod.

 

“Exactly. When they see my collar’s offline, they’ll know something’s up.” He paused to yawn, no doubt that he was exhausted by the night’s events as well. “I’ll have to go to the office first thing in the morning, so do you mind if we went straight to bed?” He rolled his eyes when he caught Sherlock’s appraising stare. “No offence, but if we tried to shag each other tonight, one of us will fall asleep halfway through.”

 

Sherlock grinned sheepishly. Well, John had a point there. As enthused as he was before, it seemed that the energy and lust had drained out of him —shame really, he would love to feel that sensation of intense arousal again. They may never be able to recreate it, but Sherlock had no doubt that they’d try anyway.

 

He couldn’t wait.

 

“My bed or yours?”

 

~*~

 

The resignation was painless and within a day, a new District Gleaner had been assigned. In a way, John felt as if he was at a loss; he’d spent his whole life at the mercy of his genetics and now that it was all gone, now that he was _free_ , he didn’t know what to do. Travelling was definitely high on his list, but he doubted that Sherlock would agree to it. He’d be dismissed with a simple ‘dull!’ or ‘pointless!’ so he wasn’t going to hold his breath. Regardless, he was free to travel around the various parts of London and for now, that would be enough.

 

The sound of shrill beeping snapped him out of his musings and with a curious glance, John pulled his phone from his pocket to check the incoming text.

 

_John, I’m heartbroken. How could you make a Pledge to someone else?_

 

John felt a cold chill shoot up his spine. Doing his best to quell the sensation of mind numbing fear, he cursed when he saw that his hand was shaking. Ignore it, ignore it. Moriarty couldn’t harm him now. Fallen stars could no longer be used as leverage, empathetic attacks no longer worked, he reminded himself.

 

It did little to comfort him. Another chime.

 

_Perhaps I should try and break it? Imagine it, breaking a Pledge! I know a lot of Gleaners who’d kill for that information._

 

Disgust joined the fear. To have his bond with Sherlock broken, to have it so forcefully taken away from him, it made him feel sick to his stomach. No. He refused to accept these casual threats. He refused to idly sit by and cower. He was stronger than that.

 

At the sound of the third chime, John ground his molars together and automatically checked the message, intent on sending a scathing one back. However, to his surprise, it wasn’t from Moriarty.

 

_What happened? Don’t reply, I’ll be right there. SH_

 

A warm smile spread across his face. The sickly feeling he had at the pit of his stomach faded in an instant, replaced with pure adoration instead. Shaking his head lightly, John pushed himself away from the wall of the office and began to make his way down the road, typing out a message as he did.

 

_I’m alright. Want to meet up somewhere? We can go home together._

 

The reply was instantaneous.

 

_Regent’s Park. Ten minutes. SH_

Not surprisingly, Sherlock was there before the allotted ten minute period, waiting on a bench with his hands in his pockets as he stared blankly ahead. He instantly looked up the moment John stepped through the gates, nodding at him with a short jerk of the head and motioning with his hand to sit beside him; John complied.

 

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said the moment John sat down.

 

John diverted his gaze. The last thing he wanted to do was to talk about what happened. While he knew that ignoring it wasn’t the answer, he was still a bit shaken. From his peripheral vision, he could see Sherlock watching him intently; in his soul, he could feel Sherlock gently probing. He wasn’t safe from his scrutiny. No doubt that Sherlock could feel the underlying sensation of fear he was trying so hard to hide.

 

There was a sharp intake of breath to his left. “He wants to break the Pledge.”

 

John smiled weakly. “I’m not sure if I want to know how you figured that out.”

 

“It was obv—”

 

John’s hand came to Sherlock’s mouth. “Another time,” he said softly. He dropped his hand and chuckled at the affronted look on his partner’s face. “I don’t know why he’s so fixated on me, there were a load of other Gleaners in Homestead who were better.”

 

“What happened to them?”

 

“Can’t deduce it?”

 

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I have one solid theory, though I’d rather hear you say it.”

 

John turned his head and stared at his clasped hands.

 

For the longest while, he didn’t dare utter a word, instead, he cast his mind back to the hell hole that was the Homestead. Great walls of concrete overshadowing the vicinity, electric fences beyond them and guards on towers armed with tranquiliser guns; it was more of a prison than an ‘institution of learning’ like they had advertised. No, no, he mustn’t think of those details. Focus, Watson! He forced his way past the slew of horrific images and concentrated on the Gleaners that resided there. Each one bore a bronze collar around their neck, each one held identical expressions of weariness and stress. Their souls were in constant danger of melding with another Gleaner’s, their sense of self never safe. But who could blame those poor souls for seeking solace with another? To comfort another tortured soul wasn’t an ill deed, was it?

 

Those who shared those sentiments were driven to insanity. The ones that gave up were ‘weeded out’. Their senses became unstable: hearing became distorted, smell clogged with the metallic smell of blood, sight; too dim or too light and skin felt as if it were on fire. Remembering this description, John couldn’t help but think that it was similar to a Mutation’s cruel touch.

 

The Gleaners that went mad eventually killed themselves but not without trying to take a few lives with them.

 

A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his reverie. “I’m sorry.”

 

John shook his head. “It’s fine.” Letting out a shaky breath, he forced his mind back to the task at hand. “A lot of Gleaners didn’t make it past twenty, the ones that stayed in Homestead anyway. We were all so desperate to get out...” He frowned. “The good Gleaners probably gave up and offed themselves. I know I al—” He stopped. There was a sharp stab of pain to his chest and he realised what he almost said. A quick glance to the left and he saw Sherlock’s clenched fists and firmly set jaw.

 

There was a long stretch of uncomfortable silence.

 

“Sorry,” John muttered.  

 

“You were admitted to Homestead before sixteen,” Sherlock said. His voice was flat, his gaze trained elsewhere; fixated on a tree in the distance. “Your lack of knowledge of the outside world —any person with a primary school education can name the continents in the southern hemisphere, but not you, that indicates that you were admitted at an early age. You don’t speak of your family, almost as if you have no memory of them, when do memories of familial ones fade? Grow hazy? Though I’ve suppressed my own memories, I’ve been told that it’s around the age of seven, give or take. Am I close?”

 

John’s head remained low. “Yeah, was almost eight.”

 

“And you were not a District Gleaner until recently.” Sherlock blinked slowly, his eyes sharpening and focusing as he returned from the recesses of his mind. He stood swiftly. “Your mentality is stronger than any other standard Gleaner and you question why he’s after you?”

 

“There were other young Gleaners. Not many, a couple of them committed...” He trailed off, leaving Sherlock to fill in the blanks. He cleared his throat and carried on. “But there was another kid. He came when I was twelve, he was ten. Weird kid, didn’t talk much. Had this weird twitch in his neck and was a bit of a runt.”

 

Something flashed in Sherlock’s eyes but John was unable to identify what. “What happened to him?”

 

John shrugged. “Dunno. He just vanished, I thought he had enough. I didn’t really care and I never asked.”

 

Sherlock stayed quiet, mulling over something before dismissing it. “Let’s go home, John.”

 

John blinked. “Huh? Oh, okay.” As he was pulled to his feet by Sherlock’s steady grip, he tried to probe into the soul fragment in his chest. He knew it was wrong; in a way, it was a breach of privacy but they were far beyond caring. The link they held was exploited on a regular basis —though it was usually Sherlock doing the exploiting, not the other way around. Sherlock owed this to John.

 

As if Sherlock felt the pull, he started to walk ahead. “We don’t need to worry about jobs.”

 

John’s concentration broke. “What?” He asked, his previous probing now forgotten.

 

“I’ve become a Consulting Detective for Scotland Yard. Though I don’t officially work for them, per se, we will be paid for our services.”

 

John’s brow furrowed. “We?”

 

With this, Sherlock simply beamed. “Of course, I need an assistant after all. We’ll be investigating murders and your skills as a doctor will be most useful. Would you rather sit at home and watch telly?” He baited.

 

“Oh, Hell no. I’ve had quite enough of that as a Gleaner, thanks,” John said, shaking his head firmly. His breath caught in his throat when he was pulled into an abrupt embrace. Suddenly, his line of sight turned a dark woollen blue and he was unable to move.

 

“I thought you’d say that,” Sherlock murmured into his ear.

 

John felt his cheeks heat but he was released before he had a chance to berate his partner. The ex-Gravedigger strode ahead, leaving him in the dust. And though there was a splutter of indignation on John’s half, it didn’t last long.

 

After that, the trip back to Baker St was relatively peaceful.

 

~*~

 

The moment his fingers touched the door, Sherlock knew that something was wrong. There were scratches on the lock that weren’t made by a key. Instead, something finer, sharper —wire? No, ludicrous, it was firmer, held a rigid shape. More than one, by the looks of it —lock picks. A scuff mark on the doorstep, unfamiliar shoe print, too large to be Mrs. Hudson’s. Chips of red on the door handle, nail polish, expensive brand. A female intruder?

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock placed his finger to his lips and placed the key into the lock. His steps were light, cautious and from behind him, John struggled to mimic the stealth he so effortlessly achieved. Sherlock didn’t mind all too much. Should the intruder be a conscientious one, they would’ve noticed them by now; with or without John’s stomping.

 

As he climbed the stairs, he noted another careless scratch on the wall, caused by the sharpened edge of a ring. She was woman of average height —if the ring had been just below waist level, a little shorter than John. Slight and agile? Hard to say, not enough data. An associate of Moriarty? Likely. Who else would break into their house?

 

His hand came to the door of 221B and pushed. His shovel should be nearby, that would do in a pinch.

 

“Oh, I was wondering when you would get back. Hello, Dr. Watson.”

 

All plans of an ambush collapsed and from behind him, John peaked out and stared at the figure sitting in his armchair. A woman peered back, her legs thrown over the armrest, looking rather comfortable as she sat wrapped up in Sherlock’s dressing gown. Her hair wet, skin lightly flushed; she had used their shower and made herself at home.

 

Sherlock felt a surge of rage course through his veins.

 

“Irene? What are you doing here?” John asked, now taking a step into the living room and approaching the stranger.

 

Sherlock’s head snapped to John. Confusion, that emotion was evident but recognition was also there, John knew this woman and for a while, it seemed. A previous Gravedigger? Jealousy mixed into the rage, Sherlock felt bile rising up from his stomach.

 

“Oh, right. I forgot,” Irene said, her voice pitched in fake boredom. Reaching into the dressing gown pocket, she fished out a collar, silver, and clipped it around her neck.

 

Oh.

 

John blinked. “Oh, you’re my replacement?”

 

She smiled. “Brilliant conclusion, doctor. Imagine my surprise when I heard that I was replacing you, because you made a Pledge, of all things!” She tossed her legs off the armrest and replaced them with her forearms as she leant forward. Her eyes were bright with curiosity, her dark red lips quirked with amusement as she purposefully exposed the visible line of her cleavage.

 

Sherlock loathed her.

 

“What are you doing here?” John asked, sparing Sherlock a nervous glance. He was doing his best to send waves of calm over to him. It didn’t work.

 

“I got a boo-boo and wanted to you kiss it better.”

 

Sherlock saw red. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to wring that thin, ugly neck of hers! John’s firm hand around his wrist stopped him.

 

“I never imagined that tall, pale and broody was your type, Doctor.” She laughed to herself and turned her head to Sherlock. “Did you know that people who’ve made a Pledge can’t be picked up by Gleaners? It’s like you’re not even there,” She said, rather randomly. “It’s rather odd, I wonder if this is how normal people feel like? How dull.”

 

Before he had a chance to digest this new piece of information, John’s voice cut through his thoughts.

 

“Irene,” John said, his voice as steady as his hand around Sherlock’s wrist. “I know you’re not here because you wanted to reminisce about the Homestead. So cut to the chase and tell me why you’re in Sherlock’s clothes.”

 

She rolled her eyes and pushed herself into an upright position. “Always straight to business.” She sounded almost disappointed. “I got bored waiting for you and the dressing gown was just there. Exquisite taste, by the way,” she said, directing the last part to Sherlock. Her smile was insincere. “My Gravedigger’s gone missing. They’re out looking for her but won’t give me a replacement one till she’s found. So I thought I could use yours.”

 

The deep, burning anger Sherlock felt was not his own.

 

He blinked and looked over at John whose face was a mask of calm indifference. If it hadn’t been for the tightened grip on his wrist and his rather stiff posture, a normal person wouldn’t have known how he felt at all. Sherlock didn’t need their bond to know that John was livid, it just helped confirm his suspicions.

 

“Sherlock isn’t a thing that can be pawned off at any given moment. We can help you find your Gravedigger but that’s it,” John said steadily.

 

Irene sighed, her playful expression dropped and replaced with disappointment. “Always so straight-laced. If you ever need help loosening up, I’m—”

 

Enough was enough.

 

“Get out,” Sherlock said.

 

John did nothing to stop him.

 

Irene blinked, looking first at John, then to Sherlock before a slow smile crept onto her face. “Let me grab my clothes. Dr. Watson? I’ll leave my number, stay in touch will you? Would love to catch up.” She winked and in one graceful movement, stood from the chair and rose to her feet, heading to the bathroom to get changed.

 

John released his held breath. Relief flooded into Sherlock’s chest. “She hasn’t changed.”

 

“You were a doctor in Homestead, of course. Why else would a surgery hire you if you had no experience?” Sherlock murmured to himself. “Did all Gleaners sexually proposition you?” He asked, watching John’s face carefully as he did.

 

His response was a smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

Sherlock frowned when he was unable to probe John’s soul for an emotional response. He had blocked the connection. His soul felt as if it had separated into two and he began to panic. Scant seconds had passed and he was filled with fear, as if someone had taken away a limb. It was illogical and absurd, John was standing less than two feet away from him but the bubble of panic simply swelled. He was shaking.

 

And just like that, the link was back.

 

John’s face turned apologetic. “Sorry, sorry. I won’t do that again.”

 

The colour returned to Sherlock’s face and his breathing returned to normal. He looked away, ashamed that he had been reduced to such an inferior state. “If you are truly sorry, teach me how to do that and I’ll consider us even.”

 

There was a soft laugh. “Sure, can’t really close the connection for more than a couple seconds anyway.”

 

There were sounds of shuffling from the bathroom and the two remained silent, comfortable in one another’s company.

 

“Are you really going to help find that Gravedigger?” John eventually asked. His gaze was fixed on the corridor leading to the bathroom. “You looked as if you were ready to murder Irene.”

 

“That woman can burn in the fiery depths of Hell for all I care. But missing Gravedigger? It has Moriarty written all over it.”

 

John mulled over this before frowning. “Don’t you think this could be a trap?”

 

Sherlock simply scoffed. “I _know_ it’s a trap.”

 

There was another laugh, a little louder than the last and Sherlock found himself smiling with his partner. “You’re mad,” John eventually said, once the mirth had been dispelled. “But I trust you.”

 

And just like that, Sherlock felt his heart swell with pride and adoration. He was unable to stop himself from bending down and stealing a kiss. A light peck, chaste, but the feelings were there.

 

“Thank you,” he said against his lips.


	2. Bond

He was on fire.

 

This was the singular thought that ran through John’s mind as he writhed on the bed. To his left, sat a pile of his and Sherlock’s rumpled clothes; tossed away in the heat of the moment and the need to strip down to their bare skin. Their underwear had stayed on, though John had no idea why, the confining material of his briefs was driving him mad. With every movement he made and every touch Sherlock laid, he grew more and more impatient. Not enough contact, he needed to feel Sherlock completely!

 

At the nip at his ribs, John’s quiet gasp morphed into a moan and the mixture of arousal threatened to choke him. He struggled to open his eyes to peer down at his lover. Long, violinist fingers traced the bumps of his ribs, stroking his sides and leaving trails of fire in their wake. John was quivering, having trouble staying propped up on his elbows. The wave after wave of lust was relentless and staggered his cognitive processes; thinking was difficult when his emotions were so intricately tied to Sherlock’s. How was Sherlock able to concentrate? Their bond had rendered John helpless, a slave to sensation.

 

Sherlock smirked and nipped at his jutting hip bone. That sinful mouth was so close to his arousal, but yet so far. Damn tease.

 

“Focus,” Sherlock murmured and moved a little lower, dragging his fingers down as he did. Forefingers hooked at the waistband of his underwear and John forced back a whimper. Too slow! Sherlock was moving much too slow!

 

John’s brow furrowed, though his annoyance soon dissipated when he was hit with another sensation of arousal —Sherlock’s, not his. The feeling short circuited his nerves, set them alight and caused his vision to turn white, he was rendered breathless. “You’re doing that on purpose,” John panted, when he had recovered.

 

Sherlock was amused. Looking up from beneath hooded lids and with a slow, sultry smile, he released his hold on John’s underwear. “So I should stop?”

 

The reply was instantaneous. “Don’t you dare.”

 

Sherlock pulled away regardless. John snarled, ready to swear at his sadistic lover when a pair of lips touched the junction between his neck and shoulder. The scent of musk and sweat was stronger now, filling his nostrils and plunging him into a euphoric daze. The soft lips against his neck were pleasant while the hands clutching his upper arms stopped him from losing himself completely. The pain was a good anchor, John noted, and filed that away for future reference. Sherlock’s tongue flickered, tasting him and John was unable to stop the full body shudder that overtook him.

 

And then came the bite.

 

Layer upon layer of emotion wracked his body. Possession, ardour, pain, arousal, those were the things that John could label, everything else was indescribable, inexplicable but important nonetheless. His mouth opened and a strangled moan burst forth and oh, how exhilarating this sensation was. The coil of pleasure in his stomach wound tighter, this was good though it was nowhere near enough.

 

When Sherlock lifted his head, John could see a matching bruise beginning to form on his lover’s neck. To him, it seemed like a shame to mar such beautiful skin, the damaged capillaries were a shocking red against the stark white and were slowly changing to purple. John reached out, his fingertips brushing the bruise, fascinated by the way the blood pulsed beneath his touch.

 

In turn, Sherlock watched him and did the same. “Mine,” he whispered.

 

This time, the shock of arousal that shot through them was John’s.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his breath came out in a gasp. They remained staring at one another for what felt like an eternity.

 

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Sherlock swooped down to capture his lips. Gone were the slow calculated touches and the teasing, in its place was wild desperation and unadulterated lust. John fell back, his shoulders hitting the bed and he clutched onto Sherlock, his arms looped around his neck as he tried his best to keep up with the hungry kisses.

 

Tongues mingled, lips were bruised from the rough bites and the short nips and when they finally pulled apart for air, there was not much they could do but stare into one another’s eyes. No words were exchanged, there wasn’t any need. John didn’t need the Pledge to know how Sherlock felt, it was clear upon his face. John blinked slowly, breaking the spell for but a scant second.

 

Sapphire blue was met with ice.

 

John’s brain became vacant. And just like that, the world seemed to crumble around him. All sound fell to a hush and all he could see was the brilliant man in front of him. In his empty head, one thought was startlingly clear.

 

_I love you._

 

The pulse of adoration that filled his heart assured him that Sherlock felt the same.  

 

John’s hands fell from Sherlock’s neck and gently traced his sides, pausing only when he reached the edge of Sherlock’s boxers. Suddenly, he felt nervous, were they really ready for this? Were they moving too fast? His eyes flickered from Sherlock’s chest to his eyes and he was met with a half-lidded stare. Pupils were blown and breath was short as Sherlock hovered above him. The consent was there. John swallowed thickly and found that he was unable to do much but lay back and stare. What did he do to deserve such a magnificent creature?

 

He started when he felt a pair of hands covering his own and slowly, the fabric began to slip away from Sherlock’s hips. After a brief moment of shuffling, they were thrown to the side.

 

John couldn’t look away.

 

As with the rest of his body, Sherlock was longer than he was wide. Flushed a dark red, John could see the drop of pre-come resting heavily on the crown, precariously close to leaking onto his stomach. John fought back the urge to swipe the bead away and to suck it off his finger, opting to stare instead, —and how would Sherlock taste upon his tongue? Salty and bitter? And if he were to take him into his mouth, would his jaw ache as he tried to accommodate him? He would most likely choke if he tried to take it all and oh—

 

Without further hesitation, John lifted his hips and shucked off his briefs, letting them to fall to the side with the rest of his clothes. His actions were swift, no longer hesitant when he pulled Sherlock close to him and lined their bodies together. Sherlock took the hint and ground down.

 

Their moans mingled and the combined sensation of euphoria was dizzying.

 

The action was repeated. Once, twice and again and again until they were close to the brink and nearing the end. It took all of John’s wits to grab Sherlock by the hips and to push him away.

 

“J-John?” Sherlock asked, there was a trace of hurt in his husky voice.

 

The hurt stabbed at his chest, but John was able to push it aside. He shook his head. “Not like this,” he said, unable to stop his voice from trembling. Thankfully, Sherlock grasped the meaning without further explanation.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathed. “You want to...?”

 

John felt his nerve leaving him and nervously, he gnawed at his lower lip. “Only if you want to.”

 

Sherlock smile was warm before he leaned down to place a chaste kiss upon John’s lips. “I’ve wanted to for a very long time.”

 

~*~

 

John frowned as he inspected the bruise in the bathroom mirror. Gingerly, he pressed fingers against it but soon pulled back with a flinch. The sound of water hitting porcelain could be heard behind him, Sherlock had decided to stay in the shower a little longer.

 

“Of all the places to mark me, it had to be here?” John asked, loud enough for his partner to hear.

 

Sherlock poked his head out from behind the shower curtain and smirked. “Of course. Years of wearing the collar has made your neck sensitive. It seemed like an appropriate location to mark.”

 

‘Mark’, Sherlock was showing that he cared, in his own strange way. John’s annoyance faded and was replaced with exasperated affection, something that had been happening frequently as of late. Shaking his head and sighing lightly, he began to button up his shirt. He did his best not to make sudden movements, lest he aggravated the pain in his backside. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t enjoy the sex, that was bloody fabulous and he’d be more than happy for a repeat performance, but it had been a while. He was out of practice.

 

The tap turned off, the water stopped. “We don’t share the sensation of pain,” Sherlock said when he pulled back the curtain.

 

John looked up from his shirt. “What?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to towel off his hair. “Keep up, John. Pain. You are obviously experiencing discomfort, while I don’t seem to be hindered in any way.” As if to demonstrate his point, he did a small jump, landing on both feet without an ounce of unease. His eyes became distant but fond when it fell to the cut on his hand. “Just injuries,” he murmured.

 

John smiled and looked at the matching mark on his hand. The cut was only two days old and was still fresh, but the scab across it was mostly unbroken; it would heal well enough. Scarring was imminent, though he cared little about that. To him, the scar was a physical symbol of their Pledge —it was crude and a little messed up, but wonderful all the same.

 

“Just injuries,” John echoed. He blinked rapidly and cleared his head with a slight shake. “Still, we need to be careful. I mean, if you get shot, then I’ll feel pain. Who wouldn’t with a gaping hole in their chest?” he joked.

 

Sherlock wasn’t smiling. “If my injuries cause you pain, then I’ll be careful,” he said, deadly serious.

 

The unwavering conviction took John by surprise. For Sherlock to be considerate to another person... well, if that wasn’t a declaration of love, then he didn’t know what was. He let out a huff before allowing his smile to split his face in two. “Come on, get dressed. We have a Gravedigger to find.”

 

~*~

 

The notion struck him when he had stepped out the door, hitting him like a baseball bat to the face and rendering him still. Underneath the early evening sky, John stood, staring dumbly at nothing. He wasn’t taking in the grey of the buildings opposite him, or of the warm orange glow the streetlamps provided. Rather, he remained on the doorstep, frowning as he chased the thin thread of thought, desperately chasing after it before it faded into nothing.

 

“John?”

 

The loud honking of a car horn did not deter John’s thoughts. “Don’t you find it weird?” he asked, more to himself than to Sherlock.

 

“You’ll need to be more specific.”

 

“Irene said she couldn’t get a replacement Gravedigger, but whenever I had issues, I got one the next day, if not sooner. If I didn’t and there was a fallen star, then it’d be dangerous for everyone,” his words were slow and thoughtful. The pieces of the puzzle were in front of him, but he was unable to piece it all together —not surprising, it wasn’t as if he was the observant one of the pair.

 

Sherlock moved towards him and joined in the contemplation. “She’s definitely a Gleaner, since you were both acquainted. So why lie about having lost her Gravedigger? A trap, obviously but what would she have to gain from it?” A snarl. “Not enough data.”

 

The wave of frustration that hit him made it hard for John to focus, though he managed well enough. He blinked back the hazy half thoughts and concentrated on remaining calm, hoping that it would ease Sherlock’s irritation. “So what now?” he asked when Sherlock’s boiling anger had been reduced to a simmer.

 

“We go along with the farce,” Sherlock huffed. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he jerked his head and motioned for John to follow. “We’re lacking data, so where better to get it than the source?” His small cocky smile fell. “However, it does mean that one of us needs to accompany that wench.”

 

John couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Wench?” he asked, his amusement growing when he saw his partner pout. “But you’re right, it’s dangerous for her to run around without a Gravedigger. You obviously can’t go, so I—”

 

“No.”

 

John stopped. Even if Sherlock was remained silent about the matter, it wasn’t a difficult feat to probe deeper. John looked deep within himself, prodding at the solid piece of his soul that belonged to Sherlock and from it, John could feel a familiar sensation of jealousy and... fear? Sherlock was afraid of something? Afraid that he would leave with Irene? Or that he would fall into danger? It was hard to pin down, and while the Pledge was helpful in discerning what one’s partner felt, emotions were usually vague and sometimes irrational. Being able to identify emotions was all well and good, but when one unsure of the cause, then it was all rather counterproductive.

 

“Stop that,” Sherlock snapped. “You are not going with her and that’s final.”

 

John could not help but scowl at that. “You’re not my mother,” he shot back, feeling Sherlock’s anger overtake him once more. No. Calm. He needed remain calm, if one of them lost their temper then it wouldn’t take long for the other to follow.

 

And just like that, John had his second epiphany. The enlightenment made him feel sick.

 

Was this what it was like to have a Pledge? To be so intertwined with another that it became impossible to know where one began and the other ended? John had spent his whole life fighting to keep his sense of self separate from others, every day had been a battle to keep his sanity and to keep his identity. Now, that was gone and stripped away from him. This Pledge meant that he was a part of Sherlock and the emotions he felt were not always his. How long would it be before he was unable to differentiate himself from Sherlock?

 

He’d lose his soul. It’d become muddied and he’d lose his mind like Moriarty. No, not just him. Sherlock too.

 

John’s lungs constricted and suddenly, it felt as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the world. The buildings were closing in around him and any moment now, the ground would tear itself open and swallow him whole. No, no, don’t scream. Don’t scream, he pleaded with himself, it did nothing to stop the mind numbing terror that consumed him. Oh God, had he made a mistake? An irreversible mistake? And Sherlock, it wouldn’t be long before Sherlock felt confined and trapped and bitter towards John? The world had been robbed of a brilliant mind and all because of a brief bout of compulsiveness.

 

“John!”

 

John’s breath stuttered and he was suddenly aware of the hands on his shoulders. The grip was strong, squeezing tightly as if Sherlock was afraid of physically losing him. John quivered as he peered up into Sherlock’s eyes. The fingers on his shoulders were trembling, Sherlock’s whole body was shaking. This was the result of second hand fear, _his_ fear.

 

“John, look at me. Tell me what’s wrong.” John hated the way Sherlock’s voice shook, hated that this bond of theirs had crippled Sherlock the way it did.

 

John needed to get away, lest he harmed Sherlock more than he already had. His mind was whirling. Get away, put distance between them and weaken this bond they had. If he didn’t weaken it, then, then—

 

John didn’t want to be the reason Sherlock Holmes lost his mind.

 

Remembering the coping techniques that had been drilled into him since he was young, John took deep breaths and desperately tried to calm himself. Then, slowly but surely, the streets began to expand and everything stilled, gone was the claustrophobic sensation and soon, the sound of London returned to his ears. A businessman speaking German could be heard behind him and in the distance, there was the screeching of tires as a driver slammed into the brakes to avoid an invisible entity.

 

“Tell me!”

 

The grip on his shoulders tightened and John winced. “I had a relapse,” John lied. He knew that Sherlock didn’t believe him, but at this point, he was really beyond caring. His brain continued to scream at him, telling him to run as far away as he could. John felt his nerves fraying at the edges and saw another panic attack drawing close, he did his best to pull away from the temptation.

 

When the pressure increased once more, John clenched his teeth tight to bite back the cry that threatened to break out. “Don’t believe for a second that you can lie to me, John Watson. Even without this bond, I can still read your pitiful life,” Sherlock’s voice was now a mere rumble. The warning was perfectly clear, Sherlock was giving him a chance to tell the truth.

 

John didn’t take it.

 

“Relapse, Sherlock. I don’t know what triggered it, stress? I’m new to the Pledge thing,” he said, sticking to his lie. He felt a pang of hurt from Sherlock’s half but remained steadfast and ignored it. John refused to give in, this was for Sherlock’s own good. So, with an even gaze, John said his next words firmly. “You should go to the Yard, see if they have any information on Moriarty. I’ll fill in as Irene’s Gravedigger for now.”

 

“Do not change the topic.” The anger was tinged with concern, Sherlock was using their emotional link as a means of manipulating him.

 

This couldn’t be allowed to continue. “Look, we don’t have time to faff about. There’s a crazed psychopath out there and you’re the only one brilliant enough to catch him.”

 

Realising that John was not going to relent, Sherlock’s hands fell from his shoulders and he pulled back. “Fine,” he spat. “If you’re not busy playing Gravedigger, I expect you back at home by tomorrow.”

 

He knew that it was the wrong time to smile but his face acted on its own accord. He could deal with a sulky Sherlock, it was somewhat normal. “Yeah, I’ll try,” John said weakly. In all honesty, he was just grateful that Sherlock had dropped the topic, while John could be stubborn, there was only so much the two of them could take before they reached their shared breaking point.

 

Sherlock’s stare lingered on him for a few moments further before finally, he shoved one hand into his pocket and lifted the other to flag down a taxi. John watched as the black cab swept Sherlock away and when it disappeared into the distance, he began to massage his temples with his thumb and forefinger. He had to be careful, he no longer had the luxury of keeping his thoughts —or rather, his emotions, private anymore.

 

His hand reached into his coat pocket to fish out a card and his phone. The numbers scrawled out onto the matchbook were thin and jagged, it suited Irene rather well, John thought idly. After two attempts at typing in the number, John he held the mobile to his ear and took a deep breath as it began to ring.

 

One, two, th—

 

“Hello?”

 

Well, time to get this over and done with.

 

“Irene? Where are you?”

 

“Doctor Watson, I was wondering when you’d call. Are you ready to take me up on that offer?” She laughed, a sickeningly sweet giggle that sent a ripple of disgust down John’s spine.

 

“Irene,” John said firmly.

 

“You’re no fun at all. Alright, Euston Station, I’ll be in the Pret a Manger.”

 

And then she hung up.

 


End file.
